Masked Rose
by Taluliaka
Summary: When Erik crawls back to the Opera barely alive after being captured, he retreats even further to his darkness and from the world that hates him. But when Christine comes back to the Opera, how will their lives change? EC in the end ON HIATUS
1. Return

_I have started yet another fic all you people. But now it is my favourite musical of all time THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA!_ _Now then, I have nothing against the book by Leroux, or Kay, BUT I don't like my Erik's ugly on both sides. I like my half-masked Erik's. My Andrew Lloyd Webber Erik's. And I have nothing at ALL against all the other guys who have played him, especially the guy who played him in England (can't remember his name) but I have fallen in love with the movie Erik, coz he's my future husband. I know some of you are a bit perfectionist and may think me shallow for loving Gerik, but it's a free world. I like the fact he's young anyway…So, on with my newest fic,_

**Masked Rose**

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own any Phantom of the Opera's versions ever made. However, if anyone could track down the Gerard Butler Erik, I would gladly take him instead. Stuff Christine. Let her have that long-haired pansy who calls himself Raoul. (sticks out tongue) Does anyone else get the feeling I don't truly care for Raoul? (stops sticking pins in her Raoul Voodoo doll and looks up curiously) Never mind…_

**Chapter 1: Return**

Christine crossed the room slowly, her eyes glancing at the newspaper that had been flung onto the table some time ago by the restless hands of Raoul, her husband. Life as a Comtesse had not come easily, she still moved awkwardly about the rooms, trying hard not to smash an expensive vase, or knock over a delicate plate of china resting daintily on an elaborately carved table. It was all so different to the Opera dormitories…but no, she didn't think of that anymore. She was married, happily married. The morning light blinded her, turning her hair to shaded sunlight.

About to move in the extravagant sitting room, she paused, the corner of her eye catching the bold headline of the newspaper which sprawled across the table. It read **Phantom of the Opera… **the rest of the line was obscured, flipped over by a playful breeze stirring the lacy curtains. Swiftly, though her stomach churned, she moved across and smoothed the paper down, hands shaking. **…Caught At Last! **For a second she stared at the words numbly, uncomprehending. It could not be true… He was a man that couldn't just be _caught_, as the headline jeeringly confirmed. _But what would you care?_, a nasty voice inside said. _You left him that night, a year ago it was. A year ago today. You left him there for the mob and left. You have not spoken of it since but you have not forgotten, have you? You haven't forgotten his heartbroken eyes, gleaming in the night…_

It had been a year ago. He wouldn't have been crazy enough to turn himself in on the anniversary of her rejection, would he? Jerking herself away from the paper where it flapped mockingly at her, the headline rippling, she stumbled backwards.

She couldn't bring herself to read the details of his defeat, the gloating article which ridiculed a man they didn't know. She could just imagine the blow -by –blow account they would give of his capture, how they would strip him bare, turn every cry of defiance into the howls of a madman, every word he spoke the threats of a deranged murderer.

'You didn't know him!' she screamed at the paper. _Why are you so upset,_ the voice crowed._ You should care nothing for the man whose heart you shattered. You should be happy he will die at the hands of others at last. Does he not deserve it? At last the noose shall tighten around his own neck and his reign of terror shall be ended. I thought you didn't care about him, Christine. Why are you crying? _And she was. Ignoring the stares of the household staff, she raced upstairs, locked the door and dissolved into tears for her Angel. When at last she stopped, she stared out her window, over the misty vineyards and pastures that was the Vitcomte's estate. Rain pattered on the roof, nature mourning better than Christine ever could for her teacher, as she stared into the distance towards Paris.

Antoinette Giry crossed the corridor to her quarters, sighing deeply. It had been a long rehearsal today, the ballet rats much more relaxed and talkative in the knowledge that the Phantom would haunt them no more. She sighed again at the thought of Erik, locked away in a cell somewhere, every unpleasant memory in his past coming to choke him. And when they decided to kill him at last… would she have the courage to watch his last moments?

Opening her door, she slipped gently in and moved to sit at her comfortable chair. And stopped. The cover had been removed from her bed. Moving forward slightly, she looked about for some logical reason for its absence and jumped involuntarily. A slight cough had rung through her room. Was it her imagination? But no, there was a rustling coming from behind the long cupboard that adorned one wall. Slowly, she looked around the cupboard for her intruder. Who she saw made her mouth fall open, all courtesy or grace forgotten. 'It can't be,' she gasped. 'Erik!'

The man was sprawled behind her cupboard in an obvious effort to remain unnoticed to any casual observer from her door, the wool drape from her bed slung about his thin shoulders as they shook convulsively. His clothes were mere rags, tattered and torn, hanging from his tense body like broken banners and they were stained crimson from concealed wounds. He had no mask and his startlingly glazed blue eyes swept over her as though she wasn't there. Slowly, against her better judgment, one of her fine hands crept down towards him, encountering the feverish heat rising off him in sick waves, causing it to halt in its descent. Then it continued, touching his shoulder as lightly as a bird alights on a delicate branch and slowly rose and fell with his unusual gasps for air which racked his thin frame. She squeezed it. 'Erik.'

Her voice was soft, yet demanding, as though she roused a child from slumber. Antoinette felt him jerk against her hold, his overly-bright eyes focusing on her hand and then the fear which rolled off him at her touch sent her reeling. It was almost a black force, rolling out in a fierce wave. She watched him struggle to rise, his eyes dark with remembered fears and implied more force onto his shoulders, trying to keep him down. 'Erik, it's me. Please don't rise; I fear you shall injure yourself more. Can you hear me? Erik?' But her words were in vain. The fear in his eyes intensified at her voice and then slowly died as his eyes closed. He slumped onto her floor and remained still, his shuddering breaths calming until she could barely hear them at all, his pulse unsteady and faint. Antoinette watched fearfully, her hands helpless at her sides, her mind whirling.

'Meg? Meg!' The petite blonde turned at the voice of her mother, hastening down the hallway to her mother's quarters. Her mother hung at the door, looking anxious and worn. 'What is it? What is the matter?'

'You must go, go and find Doctor Sebastian quickly!' Meg's eyes opened wide. Although the doctor was an old friend, his administrations had begun to cost too much and Madame Giry normally healed such illness that might strike the cast with natural remedies. 'What is wrong, Maman? Are you sick?' Her mother did look rather pale, clutching onto the doorframe with white-knuckled hands. 'Go child! Hurry!'

So Meg turned, heart pounding with anxiety, and tore through the corridors, her grace and agility as a dancer paying off as she dodged and snaked her way through a tangle of people, costumes and props, flying onto the street, ignoring the looks the well-dressed observers of tonight's opera gave her fleeing form and flew on winged feet towards the doctors house.

Doctor Sebastian did not often get visited by the Girys so he was very surprised when Meg Giry burst through his door, blonde hair flying in her wake and nearly knocked him flying, panting some story about her mother being sick and sending her to him. The doctor was quite surprised but allowed Meg to tow him out the door, pausing only to grab a bag filled with necessary items he took on house visits. Another breathless dash down the street and then the bright lights and joyful shouts of the Opera Populaire. Doctor Sebastian was finally allowed to rest against one of the corridors outside Madame Giry's quarters, trying to catch his breath as Meg tapped lightly on her mother's door, calling softly through the wood. The door opened and Madame Giry slipped out, drawing herself up with her normal erect posture and challenging gaze. She did not look, in any way, sick at all, at least, to his experienced eyes. For a second, Antoinette's proud gaze bent over the two, then her eyes softened and she bowed her head. 'Doctor.'

'Madame. I take it you are not the reason for my visit?'

Madame Giry's eyes darkened for a moment. How would the good doctor, their friend for so long, react to the sight of a convicted prisoner unconscious in her chambers? She dipped her head, acknowledging his shrewd guess and led the way into the room, shutting the door tightly behind them.

As Meg and Doctor Sebastian took in the scene of the crumpled man before them, the atmosphere was electric. Almost on some premature instinct, Antoinette dived for her daughter, wrapping a strong hand about her mouth and choking off the foolish girl's screams as she beheld the Phantom. Desperately swinging her head around for the doctor's reaction, she was relieved to see no abrupt reaction, merely a slight tightening of his lips and his half-lidded eyes opened wide to take in Erik, washing over him with their deep power, before shutting them once more. As the muffled moans of the terrified Meg died away, her eyes wide over her mother's hand, silence settled on the room, with all gazes now focused on Erik himself.

Almost as though he felt the eyes upon him, Erik stirred, his dull eyes opening to stare uncomprehendingly at the faces before him. Images and visions swirled annoyingly in his head, blurring his vision. Erik shook his head, trying to clear it, unwilling to be completely vulnerable in front of these others. He sat up against the wood cupboard and promptly fell back against it again, wincing as his broken ribs shifted slightly with the movement.

The voices from those that stood over him melded, flowing together into intelligible slurs and it was only when one of the figures reached out for him that he gasped slightly, flinching from the touch, the undercurrents of pain flowing through his body roaring at the movement. Blinking angrily, cursing his body's weakness, Erik fixed violent eyes on his watchers. One was Antoinette, her face white and stern, closed even as she gazed on his with worried eyes. And her flighty daughter, Meg, whose terror of him in this pathetic state forced a cruel smile onto his hollow face…but it was the third which caused a thrill of fury down his spine. A man, whose wary, prejudiced gaze mocked the leather bag he held in his hand. A doctor, certainly. With a mocking smile, Erik turned his gaze to Antoinette, rising slowly and painfully from the ground, holding the wall for support. 'And who else has come to stare? Are there guards behind the door? Are there people selling tickets to _come and stare at the freak, Madame?_'

There was so much pain in his voice, such cruel amusement, Madame Giry noticed. His smile was mocking, yet she knew he was hurt she had brought the doctor, felt betrayed and used in his grudging trust of her. The doctor was just one more to judge him, two more eyes to turn disgusted from his face. It was so sad to see his distrust, even after all these years… She watched his eyes dart across the room, listening for the footsteps of the guards, so on edge, even in his weakened state. He stumbled slightly and Doctor Sebastian moved to help instinctively but was stopped by an outflung hand. 'Don't touch me,' Erik breathed. His body radiated ice and his voice was as menacing as it had been the night of the disaster, when she had tracked him down in the labyrinth of his passages and dragged him back to his ravaged lair. The sheer pain of his voice and his body that night still haunted her. Erik had let his guard down, unhinged by that last meeting with Christine and Raoul. She had forced the story from him at last, though it had meant cornering him like a panther in a cage.

Afterwards, he had grasped his indifference and his arrogance and drawn them around him like a cloak, sweeping from her presence with his terrible self-control reinstated, his tortured eyes fathomlessly deep.

The doctor backed off, intimidated by Erik's savage manner at least, rather than any physical attributes. Erik had always been slim before but had had wide shoulders and a muscled physique. Now his clothes hung off him, his gaunt and wasted body trembling in its efforts to keep him upright. His eyes glittered crazily in his face and the mocking smile that twisted on his face made him look, in the shadows, more a deranged murderer than any paper could describe. Slowly, the Phantom backed from them, one arm hugging his discoloured ribs, the other still up defensively against any sudden treachery. He flicked a glance at her and she shook her head, begging him not to…but his smile only became deeper and he shook his head, barely a movement.

They both knew full well about his secret passageway by which he could access her office both swiftly and silently. Now he was going to back through it, away from the eyes, away from her betrayal of his privacy. She could almost imagine his thoughts. _I will not stay here and be judged, Madame, until the soldiers come._ Then, suddenly, someone knocked loudly on the door, calling for Madame Giry.

In the second she turned her head to look at the door and looked back, to the only man she could not stay with her freezing glare nor order around with her imperious manner, he had disappeared, a ghost of his opera once again.

_Must review or I'll…I'll…send Erik after you in his Masquerade Red Death outfit!_

_MOOHAHHAHAHAHAAAA! (Actually that wouldn't be so bad come to think of it…) But he'd have his sword…hmmm…is Madame Giry's first name really Antoinette? I'm not sure. Someone tell me! _**REVIEW PEOPLE!**

**Signing out, from Taluliaka**


	2. Confrontations

_Hello again! After days of penance done by fanatically reading, watching, listening to and generally being obsessed with the Phantom of the Opera, I have returned!_

_The reason for this bizarre fixation was both to improve my aim as I chucked darts at Christine's picturesque head…and because I wasn't really happy with my last chapter. SO I'm trying again with another chapter._

_**PhantomIsLife: **I agree! No more of this Christine/Raoul stuff! Thanks for the encouragement!_

_**The Cure: **Thanks for the compliments, Liane! I am keeping it up, as promised!_

_**Ophicial-Phan: **Oh good, I was hoping someone would tell me Madame Giry's first name! I've seen so many different versions so I wasn't sure if…AAAAHHH! No! I want the phantom cookies! Give them to meeeeeee! (breaks down hysterically, crying and laughing manically at the same time) Anyhoo, thanks for reviewing and all!_

_**Emmanuelle Grey: **(tosses Raoul voodoo doll at Emmanuelle, along with a couple of extra sharp pins to stab him with) YAYA! Someone else who doesn't particularly like the long-haired foppish…for lack of a better word…FOP! Phantom reigns supreme! (huggles her cuddly plush Erik doll, complete with miniscule Punjab lasso)_

_**Butler's Lassie: **You shall get E/C, oh, yes you will (adopts Yoda accent) mmmhummm, get E/C you will! (drops out of Yoda accent) Yes, Erik is rather…sexy, is he not? Ho hum…there's the lovely body AND the emotionally tortured soul, with certain psychotic tendencies, hatred for chandeliers and a mask! What more could you want?_

_THANKS FOR REVIEWING EVERYONE! And now on with…_

**Masked Rose**

**Disclaimer: **_Sigh...must you rub in the fact that I own nothing of POTO? NOTHING? _

_(By the way, I remembered the English guy that played him in the musical who I couldn't remember at the beginning of the last chapter! MICHAEL CRAWFORD! (snaps fingers) His name was lingering at the back of my mind for ages, then I was trying to persuade my baby bird not to eat my new designer jeans and it just popped up!)_

_And here is Chapter 2 of Masked Rose…_

**Chapter 2: Confrontations**

When Raoul arrived back at his estate, his chief servant, Pierre, met him with a troubled look. 'Good evening, Vicomte. I trust you are well?'

'Well as can be expected, Pierre.' Stripping off his gloves and handing them to Pierre, Raoul eyed him. 'Is there something wrong?'

Again, that pause. Raoul felt his heart beat slightly faster. 'Pierre?'

'It is…the Comtesse, Sir. She was…quite upset early today, for reasons she did not explain. She retired and has not been seen since. She has ordered all maids from her, Vicomte. I…I believe she wishes to be left alone!'

These last words were called in vain after the fleeing figure of his master, charging up the staircase two steps at a time. With a sigh, Pierre retreated to the kitchens, speaking harshly to a few maids in his way, who skipped backwards, mumbling their apologies with lowered eyes.

Raoul tapped lightly on the oak door which separated him from Christine. He opened the door and glanced around, to find his wife seated by the window, watching the rain. The tracks of recent tears stained her delicate face and her deep brown eyes were filled with a deep sorrow. 'Christine, what is the matter?' In a number of steps he had cleared the room and crouched at her dainty feet. She turned her head, gracing him with a long-suffering gaze, before glancing out towards the window, as distant and pale as a painting on a slip of parchment. 'Please Christine, why do you cry? I cannot bear to see you in pain. Please?' Christine turned, her eyes sweeping over Raoul once more. His entire stance was bent towards her. He truly cared for her and she had been less than a good wife to him, often becoming increasingly quiet, with her eyes fixed somewhere on a point where Raoul could not follow, a gentle smile curled about her lips, as though she smiled upon a fond memory.

'Have you, by any chance, seen the paper today, Raoul?' Her voice was soft, demure. Only her eyes were hollow with a strange emotion he couldn't name.

'Why yes, but Christine what do you mean…?' She only stared at him, her messy curls framing the white face, the trembling lips. Raoul stilled his movements for a minute as understanding dawned. 'Oh I see. You speak of _him_.' His face darkened slightly. Pain thrilled through Christine at the look on his face. 'What do you mean, _him_? How can you brush my Angel aside so easily? You cannot even bear to call him by name!'

She rose angrily, following a pace behind as Raoul stormed away from her. He whirled suddenly on her, fury deepening in his usually soft eyes. '_You _never even knew his name!' Christine did not back away from him, anger hardening the gentle lines of her face, although inside she despaired. _You thought he would understand. You trusting fool, Christine! Raoul is still jealous of him, even though he probably lies dead!_

'I cannot believe you would mourn such a pathetic and twisted individual, Christine! Quite frankly, I believe he deserves to have been caught! They shall hang him and good riddance, I say!' White-hot fury encased Christine, her eyes snapping. Unable to answer, she moved away from him, towards another door. His next words, however, stopped her dead in her tracks. 'You received a letter from Meg Giry today. She wishes for you to come back to the Opera to visit her, a month from now.' She turned back to Raoul. He stood, back to her and arms folded, the comment spoken, apparently, to the floor. 'I am beginning to think, what with your continuing obsession with that madman, that you should not go.'

'You cannot order me around like some petulant child, Raoul! You cannot stop me from going anywhere I wish!'

He turned abruptly, anger marring his pleasant face, strands coming loose from his usual ponytail and floating about him. 'What if I do not wish it of you to go?' The threat in his tone was obvious. Christine took a step towards him, her eyes glittering. 'I _shall _go, whether you wish it of me or not, Vicomte.' And she swept away from Raoul, stirring the dust motes on the floor to gold as the sun peeked through the rainy mist, illuminating the Vicomte for the briefest of moments before the clouds closed in.

That night, Christine lay awake, listening to the rain pour outside. Raoul had come to her some hours after their argument, apologizing profusely for his behaviour and suggesting they speak of the trip to Paris in the light of a new day. She had smiled, albeit coldly, accepting his mincing words but lay in his embrace like a porcelain doll, silent and submissive, which she had began to notice, he expected of her. But instead of staying in their bed this night as she had so many times before, she pushed Raoul's arm from about her waist and rose, drawing the lace aside to look out the window. She traced two droplets journey down the glass with her fingers, frowning slightly as they spiraled apart in their descent, further and further, until they disappeared into the stream of raindrops, becoming indiscernible, irretrievable.

Meg entered the passage slowly, a tray balanced before her, heaped high with food, her large eyes straining to pierce the darkness she entered. The large bow which fluttered in her hair caught the light spilling from the room she had come from. Moving slightly further into the room, Meg called softly into the shadows, 'Monsieur?' There was no answer. Erik paused in the darkness of his shattered lair, looking up and piercing the blackness with experienced eyes. Had there been a voice? About to pass it off as a cry from his obviously deluded mind, there was another soft call, almost beyond the edge of his hearing. Erik growled, showing his gleaming teeth in a fit of anger. Must all the population of Paris choose to delve into his lair? Moving swiftly, he grabbed the pole he used to pole his gondola and floated down the underground labyrinth of canals. He did not wish to have a confrontation with the younger Giry but doubted her mother would spare him if the hapless child happened to find any of the traps he had constructed over the years to keep overly inquisitive stagehands from venturing too far down into the cellars. He reached the other side and sprang to earth, landing as neatly as a cat.

Meg had nearly turned to go, her heart fluttering in her chest but no sooner had her fingers scraped the surface of the mirror which led to Christine's abandoned dressing room, that a voice stopped her. 'What are you doing down here?' Meg's insides turned to ice. He was there, somewhere in that choking darkness at her back. Turning boldly back to face the damp corridor, she said, 'Mama asked me to bring you down some food.' She indicated the plate she held with trepidation. 'She said…' Meg's voice broke with terror. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She wondered briefly whether the Phantom could hear it and then dismissed the thought with a toss of her blonde curls. 'She said you would not have much thought for food, as usual.'

Erik had stood quietly in the darkness until now, eyeing the profile of Antoinette's daughter with a sort of morbid curiosity. At this last comment, a thin-lipped smile darted across his face. He could just imagine Madame Giry's face as she said those words to her highly-strung daughter, with a mocking tone and a stiff smile. He took a few gliding steps towards her, barely noticing the plate of steaming food she held in nervous hands, eyes darting towards the mirror from which light streamed. Meg's eyes still roved the darkness, obviously still completely oblivious to his position. 'Well then,' he breathed, inches from her right ear, 'you give Madame Giry my gratitude,' she nodded quietly, looking relieved, 'and remind her that I enjoy my privacy and may not be as forgiving to the next ambassador she sends.' Meg's breath caught in her throat. His voice was now as dead and cold as the wind.

Black-gloved hands came from the void and courteously relieved her of her plate. Having completed her duty, Meg leapt for the mirror, taking a frightened look backwards as though she expected the Opera Ghost to be chasing her. Instead, she only caught a glimpse of white, as a mask shone for an instant amongst the blackness in the light from the mirror. Then she was gone, the ribbon from her hair bobbing fitfully as she fled the room, the mirror swinging behind her. One hand came out and pulled the mirror back into place with the ease of long practice and a sigh came from the darkness. Then the figure in the dark was gone, his long strides carrying him soundlessly back down the passages underneath the Opera.

_There you go! Now read and review! And don't worry, Erik's not going to get with Meg or anything. He just scared her witless, is all…Next chapter: We fast forward a certain number of days to when Christine comes to the Opera. Now then (evil grin) shall Erik and her meet in the next chapter? Or should I hold it off for another, say, three or so chapters? Hmm? Oh well, I'm off to brood over my other neglected fics._

**_Until next time, Gentlemen, I remain your obedient servant,_**

_**O.G. I mean Taluliaka.**_


	3. Hidden Music

_Hello! I'm back. Hopefully I haven't neglected this story for TOO long. But I really missed working on it. In fact, I feel so deprived that I decided to put Erik and Christine's meeting in THIS chapter. Yes! THIS CHAPTER! So celebrate everyone!_

_**Emmanuelle Lisselle Grey: **Thank you for your compliment. Erm…why were you worried? I'd never ABANDON this fic. I love it too much!_

_**Le Romantique Perdue: **Hmm, yes, well, I WAS going to send Red Death Erik around to skewer everyone that didn't review but at the last moment decided to be selfish and keep him for myself! _

_**Mel: **Don't worry, you shall get the meeting between Erik and Christine! I was going to draw it out but now I'm too impatient to get them together! I'm sorry, Red Death Erik is mine and I shall not give him away…Hey! Wait a sec! He's getting away! How dare he run from me! (Taluliaka sprints off, waving her arms angrily)_

_**Kitty Valentine: **Erm, did you mean to send your review 4 times? You made me think I was loved by 3 other different authors as well! Not to worry. Ah, but I LIKE my evil Erik's. I like to add depth to his character. Hoorayness! You hate the fop too! Grr, Raoul. One of my friends said she liked the name Raoul the other day and wondered why I was advancing on her with a heavy textbook frothing at the mouth!_

_**Lair Lover: **Aw, I feel so loved! I'm glad I started this story if authors like you get pleasure from it! Thanks for reviewing!_

_**forgotten child: **Oh, you see, that's where you got confused. Meg only advanced a couple of paces down the corridor, she never got anywhere near the house on the lake. That's how she got back to the door so quickly! It's Erik that's the fast one. And the substituting 'n' for 'm' in those French words, I got the translation from Leroux's book and I think they're the right ones!_

_**ErikTheDevil'sChild: **Thanks! I'm glad of your enthusiasm! And Christine is going now, so hold on to your hats ( if you have more than one and are wearing it, that is)_

_**Butler's Lassie: **Yes, Christine shall meet her angel! In this chapter! Hooray! Thanks for the compliments! You and Erik? Umm…perhaps not_

_**Kelly Tolkein: **AGGHH! My Gerard! Keep back! Nah I'm gonna rush into it! I know it always seems so long when you're writing it!_

_**Yami Wah: **Hey Wah! Did you like Erik? Do you find him…sxc? You will when you actually watch the movie (cough cough state the obvious) I'll see you tomorrow (I think) as well! Bye!_

_I have a virus at the moment you know, a terrible headache that's lasted for three days, stomachaches, and now a sort of cold thing. It's 'orrible I tells you, 'orrible!_

**Masked Rose**

**Disclaimer: **_Don't own POTO. Though Gerald the Canadian moose may…for those who haven't read Alter Ego, he's my moose! GO GERALD!_

**Chapter 3: Hidden Music**

Christine stepped out of the carriage daintily, taking, with a stab of reluctance, Raoul's hand offered to assist her. Wrapping her cloak a little closer around her for warmth against the cruel wind sweeping down the streets, Christine gazed with the same mixture of awe and pride she always had at the Opera Populaire looming above her. So many memories swirled around her and for a minute her heart quailed. What if the shadow of his voice still lingered in those winding corridors, those soaring arches of the theatre? What if the ghostly murmur of his beloved voice drifted through the mirror she had spent so much of her youth gazing through in rapture? Christine shivered slightly. Raoul glanced worriedly sideways at his delicate wife, a mere wisp of hair and a sweet voice standing against the wind. It looked as though one heavy blow could fell her like a spring flower, her fiery spirit shaded by her wide, haunted eyes and slim form. Was she still the woman he had loved? Lines appeared suddenly on his handsome face for a minute as a certain memory gripped him…

_The night of the Phantom's opera. The night he and Christine could flee the fear of the Opera forever, far from that madman's intense eyes, his icy passion for Raoul's sweet child whom he had sworn to love, to protect. _

_He had known as soon as Christine's face changed that something was wrong. And then, from the filtering grains of knowledge he had learned about singing from his previous visits to rehearsals and so on, he heard it too. That was not Piangi's annoying, grating tones. This singer's voice was haunting, soft as velvet, wrapping his Christine in a web of notes she could not break. Bright blue eyes flashed from beneath the Don Juan mask in the direction of Box 5. Could it be? Was that dark, intense, passionate singer the Phantom?_

_And then he heard what the man was singing…'Our games of make-believe…' Here the man closed his eyes briefly, as though the mere mention of the games pained him, his presence commanding the attention of the silent audience, though he glided lightly across the stage. Then he turned to Christine. Those eyes flashed at her, sending a silent message that chilled Raoul to the bones…'are at an end.' Then Christine answered his song, singing the same tune, the same words, light as the dew on leaves, her tortured eyes seeking his in despair. 'I've decided…decided.'_

_They ascended the ladders to meet each other on the bridge, each growing closer, their duet haunting and mysterious, twining through the music. Raoul rose, gripped with a sudden dread that he was about to lose Christine. The soldiers could not get a clear shot now, they were close, they had met, they were holding each other…'The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn!'_

_Tears spilled down his cheeks, tears he was barely aware of. The Phantom had been one step ahead all along. 'We've passed the point…of no return.'_

Raoul shook himself out of his trance, realizing that Meg had come, all floating lace and gleaming golden hair, running out of the opera and had flung her arms about Christine. The women were laughing, talking, smiling. Perhaps, perhaps it would all be all right. Since the madman was gone, surely there was nothing to stalk them in the darkness, to turn Christine towards the beauty of the night and away from the light of his love. He followed a few paces behind as the two women lightly stepped towards the door.

It was the music again. It played on and on, flowing through the walls, under her door, spiraling around her with an ethereal ring that terrified as well as entranced her. Christine sat up, hugging her knees under the thick blanket. She had insisted on staying far away from her old dressing room but had traveled there every night, to rest her head on the cool surface and listen. But the music did not drift from behind the mirror, from the Angel's realm of night. It came from elsewhere, an elusive call she could not answer. But tonight…tonight could she know the way? Rising, her nightgown flowing about her, she walked out of her room, her footsteps quietening as she stepped past Raoul's door. Her feet were cold on the floor, her hair tousled and wild about her, but it all felt right. She was meant to do this, to walk this corridor, to find the music…

The door loomed before her, cobwebs drifting from the doorknob, clinging to the hinges. This room had not been used for years yet the music drifted from behind it, haunting, sad, so close she could swear it was right beside her, all around her. Christine lifted her small white hand, so pale in the darkness and turned the doorknob slowly. The music played on. The door opened noiselessly, as if in a dream but no dream could force the chill up her toes from the floor, could make her sweep her unruly curls from her eyes, could create the impossible scene before her.

She stood engulfed in a wave of sound, her glittering eyes fixed on the room before her. It was covered in cobwebs and dust littered every available surface. The lone piano at the back of the room was dusty and old. It had been opened delicately, rested against the back wall so that the dust fell lightly to the ground with each stroke of the keys, making the entire room seem to sway and quiver in the orb of sound. The figure seated at the piano was oblivious to her presence, every movement of his fingers causing his black cloak to sweep the ground, stirring the dust motes to dance in the air about him, an aura of light.

A lone candle lit part of the piano, throwing jittery beams of light about the room, but leaving other areas untouched, the silhouette of the player, the white flash of the porcelain mask. She knew without looking his eyes would be closed, allowing himself to drift away, his self-control dissolving, leaving him truly free to create beauty without fear of ridicule or disgust. The score any other would have had before him was in his head, written in words of fire and ice to come ringing from his hands as the sounds of heaven, the music of the spheres in the endless sky. The one figure she had thought she would never see again. 'Angel.' The word drifted from her trembling lips like her dying breath.

Pain sparked suddenly in her abdomen. She had wounded him so when she had left. A memory rose before her with startling clarity and she stared into its depths hopelessly.

_The icy water of the lake lapping at the sides of the boat. The anguished cry of her teacher rent the air, sending shivers down Christine's spine. The smash of his hated mirrors filled her whole being in a stunning crash of a thousand pieces of glass, like her heart._

_She gasped at the pain of leaving him, one pale arm reaching for him in agony, even as the other clung to Roaul's broad, comforting shoulder. It steadied her slightly as the boat rocked in the dark waters. She gazed in vain back into the darkness she had so feared once, and it seemed to part for her. She caught a glimpse of a broken figure, crouched in terrible pain on the ground, cloak dark about him, the candle illuminating his form dying, dying so slowly, his hacking sobs lost and forlorn as the night crept in around him, eternal, smothering, veiling the figure from sight._

_Christine felt her heart breaking as she heard the yells and jeers of the approaching mob…_

O, would he not turn around? Christine swayed forward a step, a sob tearing its way up her throat. She slumped onto the ground, in a cloud of lace and dark curls, crumpling under the soft notes, once so compelling, so inviting, now accusing, hateful. One delicate hand stretched towards the black-clad shadow. 'Angel…_please_.' The soft cry sent a lifetime of regret and sorrow towards the aloof composer. Her sobs came thicker than before and Christine bent her head, tears cascading down her face. And it was only now that the music slowed, hesitated. Almost she cried for it to continue, dreading the silence more than the pain.

The music halted, the last sweet strains fading sadly into the night as the fingers rested gently on the ivory keys. Erik's back was ramrod straight. Two clear blue eyes stared blankly at the wall, brows lowered as he listened to the pitiful sobs. Someone was in the room behind him. Someone so familiar it was all he could do not to cross the room and bend gracefully beside her, smoothing back the dark curls and brushing the pure tears from her stricken face. To hear her laugh, smile as she once did. He closed his eyes briefly in pain before he turned, pushing himself away from the piano to face Christine, a dark-haired angel curled helplessly amongst her flared nightgown that spread, light and cool, across the dusty floorboards. It seemed like a painting, the fallen angel collapsed in a ray of moonlight while a dark creature watched on, eyes gleaming like twin flames from the darkness. For a moment he couldn't speak, couldn't believe it was actually her, the girl whose visage had appeared before him so many times in that cell, in between the beatings, who smiled so happily on him. Just a vision wrung from the tortured depths of his mind.

But never had she knelt so wretchedly on the floor, hands clutching each other, writhing in her grief, never had she sobbed so hopelessly before him, her kind teacher. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze. He sighed her name to the air and stood, stumbling a little. One hand went subtly to his ribs, which had taken months to heal since his discovery in Madame Giry's office. The burst of pain served to strengthen his resolve against the girl crouched on the floor, reminding him of the torture he had endured, sealing his vow never to get close to anyone ever again, lest they hurt him.

'Good evening, Christine.'

He said her name so dispassionately, as though she were simply a chorus girl he had once scared down a dark corridor. She dared not look at him, she merely murmured to the floor, 'Forgive me, please forgive me, Angel. Please…'

'Forgive you for what? For leaving me to the mob? For telling the soldiers where to find me? For standing before me all those long hours, as I bled onto the floor in that God forsaken cell, as fresh and pure as an angel? For having the nerve to come back, seek me out in my solitude and believe everything can go on as though _nothing _ever happened? Like _we _never happened?'

The words came like acid from him and they stabbed Christine like a thousand brutal knives. One sentence though, through her fog of grief, pierced her especially. She had told no one about where to find her Angel. Could it have been…surely not Raoul?

Then she became aware he was walking past her, not pausing, not hesitating, his sure strides taking him to the door and back to his twilight world, where she could not tell him…where she could not explain… She grabbed pitifully at the swirls of his cloak, gasping, 'Angel.'

He pulled the cloak out of her reach, remarking coldly, 'I am no angel. I never was. Let go of your childish fantasies, Christine, and leave me alone.' Then he was gone, leaving her to sob her heart out on the cold stone, gasping at the injustice of the prejudiced world against her Angel and despairing at the hatred in his tone when he had spoken to her.

It could have been hours, weeks later when she finally felt a warm hand close on her shoulder, the warm, soothing voice of Raoul speaking to her. 'Christine, what's wrong? What's happened?' She felt herself pulled into his strong embrace, her tears wiped away. But she could only sob harder, her delicate fists pummeling his chest in fury.

'How? How could you do this to me? To him? _How could you do this?_'

_Well, that was emotional. Right, now I can't really see the computer screen past the lights and stuff flashing in front of my eyes from this headache, so I'm going to go take more dugs and go back to sleep. Feel grateful I woke up for long enough to post this chapter (wrings fists at sky) Now review people!_

_**From Taluliaka**_


	4. Solitude

_Hello everyone! I just introduced my group of friends to POTO and some really liked it! Hooray, yes, I have now officially obsessed Yami Wah with it. Some others, however, didn't like it, which is alright because it's not everyone's cup of tea but you DO NOT mock POTO songs in front of ME! They all groaned whenever the singing began again. They didn't seem to notice that that is normally what happens in musicals. You know, singing? Anyhoo…_

_**Emmanuelle Lisselle Grey: **I know! The Phantom does not immediately accept Christine back after she left him for the fop! He's traumatized and paranoid after her! Yes, we shall see Raoul's reaction to Christine's outburst of weeping and beating on his chest with her fists thing! Indeed, we shall also see Erik's reaction to the meeting! Thanks for reviewing!_

_**Phantom's girl: **Aww, thanks for the compliments! But once again, a fan is sadly mistaken, Gerard, or at least, the Gerard being the Phantom Gerard, is already mine, complete with all his outfits, except for his cloak, which I have taken for my own. What? I like his cloak. It's cool._

_**Faust: **It does remind me of Fear Factor. "Will Raoul survive and get the money or will we be sued for killing him if the lever's faulty?" Besides, without Raoul, the triple duet in the lair wouldn't have happened, which is one of my favourite parts of the musical. __Yeah, I know, the critics were a bit harsh on his singing and I think he did well too. But you have to admit the king of 'Music of the Night' is Michael Crawford. My favourite song for Gerard is 'The Point of No Return'. You needed the sexuality and youth to be able to do that song, something which a middle-aged cast couldn't achieve. _

_**SuniMoon: **Oh, thank you! I'm glad someone likes my descriptions and thinks I word things with beauty! I'd hug you but…well, you know. Global website, fragile laptop. A five star rating? Wow, thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying reading it! I love getting reviews like this, people who my work actually means something to. Thank you again!_

_**gurli214: **Oh, hello, Butler's Lassie! Very subtle disguise there! Bitch slapping Raoul is one of my life goals! But I don't think Christine has the will, or the fire, to do that yet. Maybe later on…Anyway, enjoy the chappie! _

_**Solana: **Ok, I am updating for you! Ah yes, the inevitable dumping of Raoul by Christine! It will happen, I assure you. But you must remember this is an eventual E/C. The plot shall carry us there sooner or later. BTW, always nice having new reviewers! Thank you for reviewing!_

_**Terry- Crazy Italian: **Why thank you! Always nice to see enthusiasm from a new reviewer! Now are you actually crazy? As in, like, my psychosis? Or is it just a figure of speech? Ahem…I don't actually have psychosis of course… (Eye twitch)_

_**THANK YOU, EVERYONE! YOUR REVIEWS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED!**_

_And now, the title of this story which I am currently writing:_

**Masked Rose**

**Disclaimer: **_Strangely enough, you will find that I do not own POTO any more than I did for the last 3 chapters. You'll probably find I won't own it next chapter either. Oh well! I do so love telling you over and over again! I'll probably need therapy soon. (Plays the Overture to comfort herself very loudly on a very conviently-placed organ) DAAAA DA DA DA DA DDDAAAAAA! The talent, the talent! Wrings fists at sky_

**Chapter 4: Solitude**

Antoinette stood in the doorway of the abandoned room, watching Christine shake in the arms of her puzzled husband, Christine's accusing cry still ringing in her ears. She held the candle up further, illuminating the still open piano, its bright flame mirroring the dying blaze of the candle mounted on its surface. A breath of air swirled about the little group and she shivered slightly. It had not been difficult to put two and two together when she had been woken by Raoul.

Her former student curled sobbing on the ground, the music she had heard for the past few months silenced as the inevitable meeting of student and teacher occurred. Music had always acted as Erik's balm, his defense against the world and it had slowly grown again after his imprisonment, soft and fleeting. She wondered what sort of music their meeting would induce after the shock of seeing the source of his obsession again wore off.

'Vicomte, I think it would be easier on everyone if we took Christine back to her room to recover.'

The crisp tone whipped up the young man's head. He looked pale and confused, Christine's delicate fists still beating his chest even as she took comfort in his closeness, head bowed into his shoulder.

'Er, yes, indeed Madame Giry. I do not understand, this has never happened before. What is she doing here at this time of night? What has…?'

Again she cut off his words. 'I'm sure the matter shall be cleaned up soon. In the meantime I believe your wife needs rest.'

Raoul nodded, looking relieved by her determination and command of the situation. He supported his wife as he raised her from the floor, murmuring soothing words to her as they traveled though the maze of corridors back to their rooms. As they paused outside Christine's room, Christine unexpectedly raised a hand, oddly calm and pale now, and announced she needed no further assistance. She swept into her room, white fabric floating behind her. The door snapped shut in Raoul's face. Antoinette felt a twinge of pity for the young man, whose hurt registered plainly on his face, too young and innocent to conceal his feelings and passions from the world. 'I shall talk to her, monsieur. Do not be worried by her state.'

He nodded, albeit doubtfully and looked sadly at the door before moving off to his room, brushing past a puffy-eyed Meg, who clutched a cloak around her neck and watched him pass in surprise. 'Mama, what is wrong?' The questioning tone from her sleepy daughter made Antoinette turn fondly to her, remembering the time when she had only been a small girl, clutching a doll nearly as large as she was, full of curiosity and bubbling with laughter, so different to the young woman before her now.

'Just a small matter with the Ghost, my dear. Go back to bed.' Her daughter paled slightly before her eyes, eyes darting to Christine's door and back again in a silent inquiry, mindful of Raoul's proximity. Antoinette nodded once and then dismissed her only child with a swift hand movement. Obediently, Meg moved off down the hall, her mind whirling in concern for her friend.

Christine turned slightly where she lay curled on her bed, tears leaking down her pale face, hanging like spangled dew from her curls to watch her old ballet mistress enter the room. Her face was lined with understanding and she sat on the bed, watching the child with wise eyes. Christine sat, huddled and silent, staring blankly at the wall before sobbing and throwing herself into Antoinette's arms. 'Why does he hate me so much?' she gasped. Antoinette sighed and murmured soothing words to the broken creature in her arms, unable to neither answer her tearful questions nor heal the ache in her heart that Erik had left.

'Erik doesn't hate you, he never has and he never will. I believe he still…'Antoinette paused, not daring to say too much more. Telling a married woman that another man loved her was not an acceptable thing to do and what if she was placing words into Erik's mouth? What if he truly didn't love her any more?

She was interrupted from her musings by a tearstained, hopeful face. 'Erik?' Christine asked in a whisper. 'Didn't you know his name?' Antoinette asked, surprised. 'He never told me…and I never thought to ask. He was always Angel to me.' Christine appeared to have calmed down dramatically and she managed to give her old ballet mistress a brave smile. 'Thank you for your kindness, Madame Giry. I am unworthy of it, of course. I shall let you return to your rest.' Once again she was the Comtesse de Chagny, distant and formal. Antoinette bowed her head and left Christine's room, starting down the corridor, her footsteps growing more purposeful as she moved off through the Opera.

Antoinette descended the stairs, eyeing the old flapping tapestries of ancient operas on the walls. Letting herself into the Phantom's lair, she walked into the main area facing the rippling underground lake. Candles floated on the water like the torches of the dead and the strict woman, normally so unruffled by the strange events that made up her life in the Opera Populaire, shuddered at the silence and the loneliness. She had not come down here for years, half-afraid of what she might find, preferring to remember the little boy he had once been whom she had saved from the cruelty of humankind.

A crackling fire roared suddenly in the fireplace behind her, illuminating a tall chair in which was seated a dark figure, twisted in a cloak that furled around his frame like the wings of a bat. He turned his head slightly and Antoinette glimpsed the flash of a bright eye and the white sheen of the porcelain mask. 'Madame,' came his slow, rich voice, which never failed to send shivers rippling up her spine. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?' A mocking edge sharpened the edge of his words and, from what she could see of Erik, he was rigid in his chair. She recognised the signs of his anger almost as immediately as her own and he was more than angry tonight. He was enraged. There was no doubt he and Christine had met in the abandoned music room.

Antoinette paused before answering. The poor, simple Opera, concerned with its own doings, its own coming and goings, with the tantrums of prima donnas, the disappearances of chorus girls and the circling of gossip, unaware of the fierce, passionate and tyrannical will of Erik, whose shadow fell across every corridor, who was present in every swirl of music, who had only to stretch out his hand to fell the Opera for ever with all the glory of Paris inside. 'You met Christine.' It was not a question, nor an accusation, merely a statement.

With a fluid movement, Erik was up from his chair, turning to the severe woman with the shadows flickering across his sharp features like the blades of swords, masking his expression. For a moment, Antoinette waited for his wave of anger, half-flinching in anticipation. Erik smiled savagely but his voice was calm and soft, betraying nothing of his feelings. 'On the contrary, Madame Giry, it was Christine who met me.' He paced, fierce eyes never leaving her, like a hunting animal. 'I was not aware the Vicomte and his bride were in Paris. Maybe I would have been more….cautious of where I stepped.'

Madame Giry smiled coldly. 'I heard your music. You did not think it would lure her?' He whirled on her, blue eyes spitting sparks. _'You did not inform me of their presence!'_

Erik turned away again, but his eyes remained burned in her memory. 'Besides, did you think if I had the slightest bit of desire for Madame de Chagny, that the fop who calls himself her husband would still be alive?' A dark echo tinged his words and in her mind's eye, Antoinette watched the flaming chandelier fall again and heard the terrible screams.

Silence fell between them, until the soft splashing of the cold lake against the stone of the lair could be heard. Surprisingly, it was Erik who spoke first. This was the most words he had spoken to her since he had returned to his Opera. 'Goodnight Madame.' His tone suggested that further talk would be useless. His eyes blazed at her in the firelight. A breath of air curled about the lair, carrying with it the happy laugh of a young boy, beaming up at her with those same curious eyes. Then she turned and left the lair, her expression shuttered in ice that none who saw her pass in the corridors dared to break.

Deep below the Opera, Erik finally stirred from his chair, moving with silent grace to a box next to his organ, a box he had not touched for so long…He drew out the violin softly, running his fingers down the polished wood, trying to remember the last time he had played it. Before Christine turned from an orphan to a young woman with the voice of an angel. Before his kindly tutorage had turned to something bordering on obsession.

The strings still wrung notes of pure sorrow from his hands and filled his lair with a music seldom heard on this earth. The water swirled gently under the gentle notes and the cellars themselves seemed to tremble.

Far above, Christine stirred in her sleep, turning slightly and allowing the faint music to invade her restless dreams. A smile curved on her lips, regardless of the tears that still marked her cheeks. And then, just as she opened her dark eyes, already listening for the otherworldly notes, they stopped. Far below, Erik lowered the violin from his shoulder, listening to the fading echoes of the notes. The violin could not play now. It was too late for that. He replaced the violin in its velvet bed and closed the lid of the mahogany box, one hand resting there for a minute, as though wordlessly asking for it to sleep once more in his mind, be at peace silent in the darkness. Something akin to sadness whirled across his blue eyes for a moment before he turned and walked deliberately away, one hand grabbing his cloak in passing. Some time away from his Opera would do him well.

Far above, Christine felt a tug of pain at the loss of the notes she had heard so clearly in her dreams and did not bother to wipe away the tears that fell anew onto her cold pillow. From her window, she could see the stars, as could the cloaked man who quickly stepped onto the street and began to walk away. But both turned their backs on the celestial dance, blinded by their own mortal problems.

_A slightly shorter chapter this time. A sort of chapter-between-chapters, where…not much happened actually. But I've been trying to finish this particular chapter for ages and decided to let our characters cool off after their meeting._

_Please review!_

_Until next time,_

_**Taluliaka**_


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